What did you want from me?
by rochellie98
Summary: Just a letter John wrote to Sherlock. Again. There are quite a lot of these nowadays... But, yeah! Read, review, tell me if you sobbed like a baby or laughed like a maniac at my appalling late night scribblings. :


What did you want from me?

What did you want from me, Sherlock? What?

Money?

You had plenty of money; you sure as hell didn't need me for that.

Protection?

Your own personal soldier?

That's a laugh. I've seen you fight. You're a wizard with a scimitar.

Company?

You're a self-diagnosed sociopath. Yet you let a broken toy soldier into your life without a second glance. Why? You shunned company of any kind.

I'm sure you weighed the pros and cons of having a flatmate up a hundred, nay, a thousand times. And every _single_ time I was the best option for you.

Why?

Well, I know it was for no kind of financial support, emotional support, _support._

You said I was your friend.

You said you had no friends.

You said you would be 'lost' without me. Without your blogger.

Yet you know London like the back of your hand.

I don't understand Sherlock.

Why, just… why.

I know that that one day Mike Stamford saw me limping along, an empty shell of a man destined to wander London alone, was the day that changed my life.

And now I don't know if it was for the better.

I have no idea anymore, Sherlock.

Because for as many wonderful, crazy, _magnificent _adventures we had, the amount of fun times and dangerous criminals we brought to justice, none of that _happy_, can compare with the emptiness.

And this time it's different.

It's not the emptiness of a man waiting for something incredible to happen, even if he doesn't realise it yet.

It's the emptiness of a man who has lost everything.

Because you were my everything.

And now you're fucking gone.

And you've fucking gone and left me all alone.

Again.

And that isn't right Sherlock.

You know it.

We should be growing old together, you and I.

You could have had the bee colony you wanted. You would have made the sweetest honey, I can tell.

All I really, truly want, is to go through my life with you, solving crime after crime. Months blurring into years while we laugh and fight and scream and...

Sherlock?

Do you remember that one time, when it was quiet?

When you had just solved a mastermind plot to blow up the London Eye, the case that had taken months to solve? You told me never to blog about it. Top-secret, hush hush. I think it might have been one of the very few times you genuinely listened to Mycroft's advice.

It was like the calm before the storm. You hadn't got Post-Case-Jitters just yet. (You had your own illness, I swear. It should really be called Sherlock syndrome…)

I was reading the paper. Well, I say reading. I was watching you out of my periphery. And you were tuning your violin with a soft, smug smile of your face, your eyes occasionally flickering my way.

You were watching me, watching you, watching me, watching you. We both knew what was going on. But we didn't say it.

We didn't need to.

Well I remember that. It was a week before _it _all happened.

_It _obviously being the worst time of my entire life.

And I was in the fucking army, Sherlock.

I hope you realise, that your death to me was worse than the death of a hundred others.

I don't even need to sugar coat it anymore do I?

All those people, Sherlock. The ones you left behind.

Did you ever want anything from them either?

Did you ask them to share a flat with you?

Was there anyone before me?

Would they have been your best friend too?

Someone else to accept the fact that you showed up naked, in _Buckingham fucking Palace. _Someone else who would blog about all your cases, to save your life on multiple occasions and never ask for anything in return.

If I hadn't showed up that first time…

What if I had ignored you…

Told you to piss off…

Would I have read your name in the paper, and thought, '_Oh, that's terribly sad. Ah, I see Manchester is winning again…'_

You would have been another face in the street.

I would never have known the true genius under that funny hat.

I would never have this smoking crater burned into my chest. The charred remains of a man who was once so alive.

I'm buried in that grave too, you know.

So, Sherlock.

Did I miss something?

Something important. Something big. Something only a proper genius like you could ever see.

Because I still have no idea what you wanted from me.

And that might just kill me.

So, Sherlock. Please.

_Stop this… stop this right now._


End file.
